She followed his gaze to where a man sat at a picnic table—alone, hunched, wearing a baseball cap and an unzipped hoodie. Fingers curled around a red plastic cup, he stretched one leg to the side, foot wiggling impatiently.

Wilder tapped her elbow. “Shall we?”

She caught a whiff of the homemade pretzels from a stand nearby as they moved.

“Creighton, thanks so much for taking the time to meet with us.”

The man stood as Wilder extended his hand, and they shook. Sydney followed suit, offering what was most likely too wan a grin. He might be family. She should be filled with anticipation.

But she just couldn’t shake it—the unreasonable hope that he wasn’t her uncle. That the woman she’d met in that hospital room six years ago, emaciated and raspy-voiced, wasn’t her mother.

“At least I did the right thing. Leaving you . . . at least I did that.”

Would those words lose their sting if she discovered the one who’d uttered them hadn’t had any claim on her in the first place?

Creighton zipped up his hoodie before resuming his place, his curious gaze roving over Sydney. “So, you might be . . . my niece.” His look said he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Weird, I know. We’re not actually that far apart in age.” Not with him being so much younger than CarleeAnn.

Wilder sat across from Creighton and motioned for Sydney to lower next to him. “As for whether you’re related, we’d hoped you might be able to shed some light.”

“I thought you said my sister gave her up for adoption?” He flicked one hand toward Sydney. “That would seem to indicate . . .” He shrugged. “Look, we weren’t a real close blended family. Even when CarleeAnn was living at home, we didn’t see a whole lot of each other. By the time I was walking and talking, she was a teenager—always out with friends and whatnot. And then she went to college and then . . .” Another shrug.

Sydney peered at the man’s face, looking for anything that hinted at a family connection. But no, even if they were connected through his stepsister, they wouldn’t share physical similarities. “Wilder said your sister dropped out of college during her first semester. Did she come home at all after that?”

Creighton’s nose scrunched. “I don’t think so. If she did, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.”

Wilder leaned forward, elbows on the table. “But the weekend of Diana Muir’s accident—she was in town then?”

Creighton nodded. “That, I do remember. They’re kind of tied together in my head. Everyone heard about the accident.”

“And what else do you remember about that weekend?” Wilder prodded.